When the Whole World Is Hurting

Simple but not Easy Answers

A friend told the story that her children, when they were young, whined over the way she cut pieces of birthday cake. “You got the same as me, and I didn’t.” The kids said, in a clumsy attempt to say No Fair!

Another family member mangled a different adage: “You buttered your bread, now lay in it.”

Sounds humorous but isn’t it a little like our current misery? Nothing is fair. Everywhere I look, people are upset. Depressed. Mad. Sad. Furious. It’s as if the entire population is weeping and gnashing their teeth over issues large and small. Even in my own life, widowhood is quietly excavating the bottom out of the security I’ve known.

Whether you’re a big picture person or more interested in details of your one life, people seem to be hurting. Happy days are NOT here again, not by a long shot. And many of us seem to think we’re the first generation ever to suffer such outrage.

Um, no.

My grandmother was born at the turn of the twentieth century. Her adult years slammed head-on into the Great Depression. Today, we tend to only remember certain bits of that era, but for my grandma, it was torture. And she and my grandfather were luckier than most.

They happened to work (actually sing) their way through college and both earned teacher’s degrees. But even so, Grams told a story about not having enough money to get her baby some Pepto-Bismol. I’ve tried to imagine being that poor—I see unhoused people all around me, but so far I’m better off than some.

I keep coming back to the idea that if you need something badly enough, God somehow sends a bottle of Pepto. It won’t solve all the problems—that same baby died at only age six months—but it’s enough to dare you to hope again, even if it’s just a tiny hope.

And that’s where I find myself today.

I don’t know that God always directly intervenes in my life. I mean, hey, he’s a busy guy. Yet when God created everything, he planted love in us. The capacity to care about something that isn’t you.

The possibility that at any moment, you could become the giver or the receiver. The mud or rib we all rose out of contains the simple—not easy—answer to what ails us. When we love, suffering turns to mercy. And mercy eases suffering. And the less we are suffering, the more we can love.

I wrote last post about my fears that the polio (and measles, mumps, etc) viruses might return to plague us. That the forgotten suffering of folks in iron lungs or metal braces could make us all suffer anew. I worry that the resurgence of cruel diseases might make the disabled among us even more shunned, more miserable, more cut off from able-bodied society.

I hope that never happens, but like the Great Depression, I doubt many folks predicted the bank crash of 1929. After WW I and Spanish Flu epidemics, people were generally optimistic. And then, they weren’t.

Plunged into chaos, people panicked. Lost jobs, lost possessions. The Joads of The Grapes of Wrath fled the Dust Bowl in search of something to hope for. Some jumped out windows to their deaths, some died of hunger or disease.

I fervently hope we don’t witness the same nihilistic behavior in this century. As things get more chaotic, you can practically feel the levee about to break. The one thing I do hope for is what other, less visible people did in Grams’ day.

You see, a kind person gave her the bottle of pink stuff. Even though the baby died, she never forgot the kindness. And she passed it on. A spark of love—so small it may have only cost a nickel—became a bonfire. Someone reached into the deep end of their heart and rediscovered the love God knit into our very bones.

As a new widow, I need to remember that small generosity. It’s tempting to say, “Oh no, I might not have enough, so I can’t give away my widow’s mite.” I admit I’m worried about provision. My income will be about one-third of what it was when Brad was living. But if I reach way, way down into the furthest recesses of my heart, I can understand that my lack might be what someone needs to awaken their own love.

During the Great Depression, people helped one another more than we’ll ever hear about. Today’s fractious time could be what we needed to grow our love toward each other. I often feel as if I’m lying in the bread that I buttered. But there, in the deep end of my heart, love is trying to burst out of its cage. May love’s balm be the simple but not easy answer we all can use to ease suffering wherever we find it.

Someone out there needs a bottle of Pepto-Bismol right now. My hope is still pretty tiny, but I want to be open to love’s call, to let God’s built-in mercy ease suffering wherever I find it. Maybe I’ll share some of my buttered bread.